The Legend of Pradeep Mathew

  Simple is one thing it most certainly is not.

  As the sun snuggles behind a cloud, we sit under the apple tree and watch cars glide down College Street.

  ‘Why don’t you come back to Sri Lanka and coach? These foreign coaches are no good.’

  ‘Last year seventeen murders in Castlecliff. One twelve-year-old boy was knifed in the throat last Christmas. This year none. Not one. All the gang boys play in my teams. Our 1st XI beat the Collegiate seconds.’

  ‘The Collegiate headmaster doesn’t mind you training rival clubs?’

  He drains his glass and smiles.

  ‘He knows I work harder than half the teachers there. I used to be lazy. Can never understand that. Sri Lankans suddenly become model workers when they go abroad.’

  ‘We have seventeen murders every day in Lanka. And those are the good days. Your country needs you more.’

  He shakes his head. ‘If I come back and try to do something, there’ll be a thousand and one reasons not to and a million and one people to prevent me. In the end nothing will get done. I’ll just get frustrated. Trust me. I know the scene.’

  ‘It’s not so bad,’ I say, as a blue Peugeot pulls into the driveway.

  ‘Here, the air is clean, you can live a good life, do your bit. There you just waste your energy. That’s my wife. I think I may have to go.’

  I recognise the woman from the photograph, though her skin is glossier in person. She carries a bag of groceries and her tracksuit trousers hang on her chubby waist. She looks sweet and matronly, somewhat of an MILF.

  ‘Meet my wife Danila. Dani, this is Garfield …’

  I drop my glass, but luckily it is empty and luckily it bounces off the grass. I squat down and pick it up. When I look up, she is staring at me.

  ‘Garfield Karuna … tilaka.’

  ‘I’ve seen you somewhere. Where did you work in Colombo?’ ‘I was mostly in Dubai,’ I stammer. ‘Thank you, Mr Nathan, for the drinks. I’ll be in touch.’

  I turn to his wife, who is now frowning. ‘No. No. You must stay for tea. Siva, bring some ice cream after you drop the kids.’

  ‘I really have to …’ I stammer.

  ‘We don’t get to meet many Sri Lankans, no, Siva?’

  ‘The tragedy of our lives,’ says her husband, twirling the car keys. ‘Luke, Kula. It’s almost 4. Come now.’

  Siva bundles the two curly-haired lads into the car. The elder one smiles at me this time.

  ‘If you’re gone when I’m back, I’ll see you Tuesday with your boys, eh?’ says Siva, turning the ignition.

  I reach into the car, shake his hand, bow my head and say thank you.

  ‘Excuse me,’ says Danila, ‘I need to make some calls.’

  I am served Dilmah tea and Anchor milk and sit in the study as she makes her calls in the living room. The house is messy but nice. The study is filled with files and a small computer. After about fifteen minutes, she joins me. She sits at the computer and types.

  ‘You look a lot like your father. Same face.’

  I say nothing.

  ‘Did he finish his book?’

  I say nothing.

  ‘Didn’t think he would. I never told Siva about his secret biographer.’

  ‘You mean Pradeep?’

  ‘Reggie Ranwala went around telling everyone that Karunasena’s book would ruin the SLBCC. You’ll have trouble publishing it.’ ‘I don’t intend on publishing.’

  She looks at me and winks. ‘Your father used to scratch behind his ear when he was lying.’

  I stop scratching behind my ear.

  ‘Here we go,’ she says looking at her screen. ‘“Alice Dali. US/Swiss/Sri Lankan Post-Grunge 4-piece. Bass: Garfield Karunasena.” Hmm. That picture was such a bad idea.’

  I know exactly which picture she is referring to and I nod. ‘You got me.’

  ‘And are you going to get us?’

  ‘Can I interview him?’

  ‘No.’ She holds my gaze and watches me flinch. ‘His sister says the threatening calls have stopped. We have a good life here.’

  Danila Guneratne was the one person in the book I most wanted to meet. I expected a femme fatale, not a soccer mom with an evil glare.

  ‘I’ll leave all of this out. I’ll say I never found him.’

  ‘Can we trust you?’

  ‘I give you my father’s word.’

  She laughs. I’m not sure if it is out of scorn for my father’s word or out of contempt for me.

  ‘I have a note for Pradeep.’

  ‘From whom?’

  I fish out the paper I’ve been carrying with me for almost a year. ‘Someone who said he was a friend.’

  I have kept this paper in the condom pocket of my wallet. It has tears around the creases, but it is in decent condition.

  ‘Who’s it from?’

  ‘A man called Kuga.’

  She takes it and does not look at it.

  ‘Do you smoke?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Come outside.’

  We sit on the porch and she borrows the lighter that I bought from the P. addict in Aromoho.

  ‘Put your ash here,’ she says, pointing to a barbecue-like contraption. ‘In clean, green New Zealand, there’s a separate bin for every type of rubbish.’

  ‘So you’re happy here?’ I ask. In the warm porch light, caressed by shadows, she begins to resemble the creature my father once described.

  ‘Siva doesn’t know I smoke,’ she says, staring at the McGillicuddy logo on my lighter. ‘Soon I’ll give up and he won’t have to know.’ ‘He’s a brilliant cricketer.’

  She shrugs and eyes me with something resembling menace. ‘You won’t let us down, will you?’

  I watch her spark the lighter, hold its flame to the air and set fire to a note that she hasn’t even read. The corner glows orange and then fat flames grope her painted fingers. She drops it. It curls into black powder in the ashtray grille and we watch the flame turn it to dust.

  ‘Everything turned out fine,’ she smiles. ‘Let’s leave it like that. OK?’

  Last Man/Have Chance

  I spend a month in Unawatuna, editing chapters, chopping down tall stories and changing names. It’s a wonderful place to be. Each day I eat crab curry and drink Portello and watch the bay change colour. Enid calls and reminds me of deadlines in her Sergeant Major voice. I have gotten used to her.

  The day before I am to leave the beach, forced inside by a monsoon, listening to the wind bow down coconut trees, trying not to think of tsunamis, I pick up my acoustic and play a bass line that I have never heard before. I write a song about a rich kid who goes to nightclubs and shoots at mirror balls. I call it ‘The Minister’s Son’.

  By the end of the week I have seventeen pieces of music I’ve never heard before. I swallow hard and call OP, guitarist from Independent Cycle, my friend from another lifetime. He agrees to meet me for a beer. I go for a swim after dinner. I float in the warm ocean, gaze at the stars and think of nothing.

  ‘Uncle. You were supposed to be back last week.’

  ‘Enough with the Uncle.’

  ‘I must say you have worked hard.’

  ‘From you that is high praise.’

  She laughs, a rare treat indeed. Her laugh is a perfect melody in A major.

  ‘Author’s name I have an idea,’ says Enid.

  ‘Good. ‘Cos I don’t.’

  ‘That surname you gave that Danila.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When you met her and dropped your glass. Maybe drop that dropping the glass bit. Bit Charlie Chaplin, no?’

  ‘Karuna-tilaka?’

  ‘That’s the one. With your middle name.’

  ‘Shehan Karunatilaka? Bit common, no?’

  ‘It’ll be a good disguise.’

  ‘I hate it.’

  ‘OK. What about title?’

  ‘I emailed you a new list.’

  ‘Really? Let me check.’

  I hear a computer keyboar
d being punched by a pixie girl and outside I hear waves. I imagine a sparse bass under a flanging C#maj7 chord. I have the urge to cut the line and pick up the guitar.

  ‘You know, Garfield. The bits that we left out.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘We should put them back in.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The man from Flamingo reckons getting sued will be good for book sales. Free media coverage. Look what the fatwa did for …’

  ‘You called Flamingo India?’

  ‘Flamingo New York. Cricket and the subcontinent are very much in. So are lawsuits and scandals.’

  ‘If we weren’t on the phone, Enid, I would kiss you.’

  ‘Can we finalise title? Are these the names you sent?’

  She reads out my last night’s work. ‘The Book That No One Will Read. Boring … Revenge of the Chinaman. Sounds like a Bruce Lee … Shades of Brown. What? … Konde Bandapu Cheena. No …’

  She sighs. ‘I don’t think we’re there yet. Let’s keep thinking.’

  So that’s it then. I have finished something. Hurrah for me. Maybe nothing will happen. Maybe everything will. Maybe this guitar will catch a song. Maybe my son will play in the Royal–Thomian. Maybe the war will end. Maybe we’ll get home safely after all.

  ‘Garfield?’

  ‘Can we wrap, Enid? I have a song to write.’

  I can feel the melody approaching like a tidal wave gathering strength from the horizon. One more paragraph before it hits.

  ‘Few things. Have you decided on the main character’s name?’

  ‘Either Vinothan Karnain.’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘How about Charlie Jeganathan?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Sanjeewa Amarasinghe?’

  ‘Can’t be a Sinhala name, men!’

  ‘Jurangpathy Jeyarajasingham?’

  ‘Sounds stupid.’

  ‘Pradeep Mathew?’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘I don’t know, I just …’

  ‘Try it.’

  Acknowledgements

  Aadhil Aziz

  Aftab Aziz

  Ajit Chittampalam

  Amit Varma

  Anila Dias Bandaranaike

  Anjali Gurusinha

  Anton Rose

  Anuruddha Fernando

  A.R.L. Wijesekera

  Arittha Wickremanayake

  Ashley Halpe

  A.S.H. Smyth

  Azhara Aziz

  Callum Sutherland

  Channa Gunasekera

  Charith Senanayake

  Charlie Austin

  Chula Karunatilaka

  Dakshith Wekunagoda

  Danushka Samarakone Dhinesh Manuel

  Dominic Sansoni

  Ed Smith

  Elmo Tawfeeq

  Francis Felsinger

  Gowri Ponniah Harini Diyabalanage

  Indi Samarajiva

  Ishan Seneviratne

  Jehan Mendis

  Jehan Mubarak Joe Lenora

  Kanchana Warnapala

  Kamal Kiriella

  Kasun Karunaratne

  Kumar Sangakkara

  Lawrence Booth

  Mahinda Wijesinghe

  Malinda Seneviratne

  Marcus Berkmann

  Michael Ondaatje

  Michael Roberts

  Mike Marqusee

  Nazreen Sansoni

  Naren Ratwatte

  N.B.D.S. Wijesekera

  Paddy Weerasekera

  Para Molligoda

  Percy Karunatilaka

  Prasad Pereira

  Rajeeve Bernard

  Ralph de Silva

  Ranil Abeynaike Ransley Burrows

  Ravi de Mel

  Reggie Ranwala

  Richard Simon

  R.O.B. Wijesekera

  Rohan Ponniah

  Romesh Dias Bandaranaike

  Russell Miranda

  Sajith Jayaweera

  Sean Amarasekera

  Selva Fernando

  Shanaka Amarasinghe

  Shami Gamage Sid Dassanayake

  Sidin Vadukut

  Simon Barnes

  S.S. Perera

  Thangu Manuel

  Tracy Holsinger

  Uvais Amalean

  Victor Ivan

  Wendy Ebenezer

  Wijesiri Mathugama

  www.cricinfo.com

  www.cricketarchive.com

  www.youtube.com

  Special thanks

  Eranga Tennekoon

  Michael Meyler

  Deshan Tennekoon

  Lalith Karunatilaka

  Chiki Sarkar

  Rimli Borooah

  Dan Franklin

  Ruwanthie de Chickera

  SHEHAN KARUNATILAKA lives and works in Singapore. He has written advertisements, rock songs, travel stories, and bass lines. This is his first novel.

  Manufactured by Versa Press on 30 percent postconsumer wastepaper.